


Gravity

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a <i>feeling</i>, okay? Fuck.” SKOM era. 2002.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> Title and (slight) inspiration from A Perfect Circle's Gravity.

“When I said a month ago that I was thinking about killing myself, it doesn’t mean that I would walk around and think about that all the time,” Lars said. “It wasn’t an absolute.”

Phil frowned. “But it’s still something very serious.” 

“It’s a _feeling_ , okay? Fuck.” He emphasized the ‘fuck off’ in his snort, his eye-roll and his back turning to the Health Tornado—which only put him in James’s wide-eyed line of sight. 

_Shit._

His head ducked down, chin to his chest. James hadn’t been there for that session. Kirk and Bob of course knew. They weren’t about to push a dead issue. But not James. By the look he caught on James’s face, he knew James wanted to say something. Wanted to push. Ask questions, demand answers, _what happened, why didn’t you say anything, what the fuck Lars, why._ And he was ready for it. He was ready to fight. He knew how to fight James.

James never brought it up.

The conversation eventually exploded into the confrontation he was waiting for though. A ‘fuck’ in James’s face, caught on camera. James’s fist on the table, flexing and shaking. Kirk, worried as usual, sitting in the middle, and Bob too, rubbing his hands over his tired face. Only the cameramen stayed quiet statues. 

It was a needed blow up. Things slowly became better after that. The more they talked, the more they made music. The more they made music, the more they felt good. They utilized the tools Phil was giving them, and they were finally effective. He and James were talking. Kirk wasn’t mediating between them, but actually collaborating. Bob wasn’t being babysitter, but a fellow collaborator and producer.

Then, a few weeks later, James didn’t leave at 4. “Hey Lars?” He poked his head into the control room. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure.” Lars dumped the yellow pad full of song notes to the studio couch. “What’s up?”

“Just something, y’know.” He shrugged his shoulders. His hand held the door open for him. They met stares as Lars passed by, and James’s voice dropped a whole octave. “That I need to tell you.”

A year ago, he would’ve pestered James relentlessly. Or jumped his bones just because of that whisper. Now, he nodded. “Okay.” And followed James out of the room and up the steps, right into his office. 

When the door shut, arms instantly snapped around him and squeezed tight. A face buried into his neck.

He gasped, his arms wrapping around James’s waist to gain balance. 

His lips brushed James’s hair, tickling his nose. From this close, he could smell him again—the Axe, the aftershave, his shampoo. _Still the same._ His eyes fluttered shut, taking a deep breath in, and a slow, shaky exhale. _Fuck._ His hands flattened out on the small of James’s back. _James…_

And then: “Don’t.”

He stiffened. His hands slowly lifted up. 

James shook against him, in his arms. 

His hands settled back down. 

More shakes. Heavy breaths. 

A sniffle, against his neck. Wetness, against his skin. 

His chest tightened. _James…_

He heard James’s muffled whisper loud and clear. “Don’t do that.”

One hand slid up James’s spine into his hair, fingers weaving in. He leaned his head into James’s. “Do what?”

“You know.” Another sniff. “What you said. What you felt.” 

The head lifted away from his neck. Arms let go of his torso. Big, warm hands grabbed his face, and when Lars opened his eyes, he found wet, wide blue ones looking right at him. 

“Don’t you ever feel like killing yourself.” His vision shook as James’s hands shook his head. “ _Ever._ Understand me?”

James turned blurry for a second. He blinked away his own tears, his hands reaching up to rest over James’s on his cheeks. “I was overreacting.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’d never do it.”

“I don’t _care._ ” He watched James’s Adam’s apple bob, and his voice turned huskier, softer. “I love you.”

He froze. The words—those words, for the first time in a year, two years. _James._ And he meant it. He said it, and he meant it. He saw it, right in front him. James saying that, sober. _Fuck._

The hands on his cheeks slid down to the junctures of his neck. His own hands rested onto James’s biceps. 

“Promise me, Lars.” James’s hands squeezed hard. “Please.”

He nodded. “I promise.”

James’s lips curled into a small smile. “Thank you.”

Those lips fell over his for the briefest of seconds, but it felt like minutes passed when they parted. 

“See you tomorrow,” James said, stepping away and opening the door in one fluid motion. And Lars was too stunned, his face and lips and body too tingly, to respond right—to demand James _why now, what are you doing, what the fuck James, why._ Instead, he nodded again, like an automaton, and felt stuck in autopilot, saying “see you tomorrow” back, heading down the stairs, out the front door and to his car. 

He still felt James’s kiss, James’s hands and James’s body heat when he slipped into the sheets and curled around James’s old pillow, on James’s former side of the bed. 

_James loves me._ He breathed in the scent of laundry detergent, his eyes shutting. _He said he loves me._

The fabric muffled his soft, “I’m sorry.” It muffled his even softer “I love you,” as he nodded off to sleep.


End file.
